


mors vincit omnia

by aude_sapere



Category: CrankGameplays - Fandom, MarkiplierGAME - Fandom, Unus Annus - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Angst, Assassin Ethan Nestor, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Badass Ethan Nestor, Blood and Violence, Christmas Movies, Clueless Mark Fischbach, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ethan Nestor needs a hug, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Ethan Nestor, Hurt/Comfort, Massages, Mom-friend Amy Nelson, Panic Attacks, Plot Twists, Protective Ethan Nestor, Touch-Starved, Unus Annus, YouTube, for being a story about killing people this is actually really fluffy, guys i just love ethan okay, video references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27045484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aude_sapere/pseuds/aude_sapere
Summary: mors vincit omnia- latin for "death conquers all"Ethan is tired of downplaying his capabilities, tired of being underestimated by millions of people. But it's certainly better that the alternative.Or the one where Ethan is secretly an assassin and YouTube is his cover. But now he has over a million subscribers. He has a commitment to Unus Annus.It's only a matter of time before he slips up.
Relationships: Amy Nelson & Ethan Nestor, Mark Fischbach & Amy Nelson & Ethan Nestor, Mark Fischbach & Ethan Nestor, Mark Fischbach/Amy Nelson, Mark Fischbach/Ethan Nestor
Comments: 156
Kudos: 619
Collections: eef whump





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The summary is rough, I know. After rewatching the Unus Annus video "Mark and Ethan Get Into a Fight," I realized how much I absolutely crave more of Ethan being a badass.

“So, I wanted to run something by you,” Mark says, not looking up from his phone. Ethan flops down onto the couch beside him and gestures for him to go on, tilting his glass of water up towards his lips.

“So, we’ve got like a month left of Unus Annus.”

“Mmm,” Ethan grunts.

“I thought it would be cool if we did a shooting video. Like, you know how we did archery? Like that, but, you know, with guns. Like at a firing range or something.”

Ethan groans internally, setting the glass on the coffee table. Goddamn, _another_ skill-based video? He’s sick of ‘em, to be completely honest. He’s tired of having to pretend to suck at everything, having to downplay his coordination and skill.

Back when they did Chinese archery, he’d snuck in a cheeky little shot and split Mark’s arrow just for shits and giggles, but recently they’ve been doing more and more of these types of videos. The gymnastics video had been a small reprieve where he was actually able to show off a bit, but since then, with the wrestling and the archery on horses and aerial hoops and aerial silks, God, he’s _tired of it_.

Christ, the fans probably think he’s a damn hazard to himself at this point.

Mark is staring at him. How long has he been staring at him?

Ethan barks a small laugh, shaking his head. “Sorry, man, zoned out there for a second. Yeah, we can do that. Did you- do you know anywhere around here that does that?”

Mark’s jaw works for a second before he speaks, slow and a bit cautious. “Are... listen, that’s why I was asking. We don’t have to if you don’t want.”

“No, we can,” Ethan assures. He ducks his gaze, hates lying to Mark more than almost anyone else. “I just... I’m tired of looking like an idiot in front of the cameras, you know?”

“Aww, Ethan,” Amy’s soft voice drifts from the kitchen. Ethan looks over, watches as she walks from around the countertop and over to the living room, plunking herself down on the arm of the couch next to Mark. “You know the fans love you, right?”

“Yeah, I just...” He sighs, shoulders curling in on himself. Fuck, he’s a fucking terrible friend. He doesn’t deserve Amy’s sympathy.

Mark’s hand presses on his arm, a firm weight. “Hey, we don’t have to. It was just an idea.”

“No, I-” he exhales sharply, “I want to do it. It’ll be fun, you know? And it’s probably, like, a good thing to know, just in case.”

Mark is looking at him, clearly doesn’t want to let it go so easily, but Amy, _bless_ her soul, seems to pick up on Ethan’s insistence.

“I think it would be good content,” she says readily. “Just so long as you guys don’t accidentally shoot each other.”

Ethan’s stomach flips at the thought. “Uh, yeah, we’ll definitely be careful. No playin’ around or anything, even for a bit.”

“Right,” Amy nods. She leans against Mark’s shoulder, looking down at his watch. “It’s getting pretty late. Are you staying tonight?”

Ethan shakes his head, rising to his feet. “Can’t, I have Spencer this week. And I have some stuff to wrap up at home before I can go to sleep anyway.”

“Well, just make sure you get to bed at a reasonable time, alright?”

Ethan cracks a smile and nods. Amy is such a great mom-friend. He loves her so much it hurts his heart sometimes.

“Yeah, we can’t have you sleeping in and uploading late _again_ ,” Mark says jokingly, and Ethan shoves his shoulder, laughing.

“Hey, fuck you, man,” he chuckles. “Those haven’t _all_ been my fault.”

“Well, that’s true, I guess,” Mark concedes, dragging a hand through his hair. Ethan shoulders his backpack, a little heavier than usual with his new camera nestled inside. Mark and Chica walk him over to the door, as they always do.

Ethan bends down to give Chica a couple scratches on the head, slipping his feet into his shoes.

“You need to get that cut,” he says, gesturing to Mark’s wild mane of hair. He’s taken to pulling it back recently, but it’s still getting out of hand.

“I know,” Mark groans. “I know we’ve made some jokes about it, but maybe for a video? Like, on the last week or something.”

“It’s a thought,” Ethan laughs. “Just know that I’ll probably fuck it up.”

Mark waves him off. “So what? It’s not like I really ever leave the house anymore anyways.”

Ethan shrugs, digging his keys from the side pocket of his backpack. “Alright, well, I’m gonna head home. Bye, Amy!”

“Drive safe!” she calls in reply.

“Will do,” Ethan says, patting Chica. “Bye, Mark, I’ll see ya on Saturday. If you want me to look into some places for the shooting video, let me know.”

“Sure,” Mark nods, squatting down to draw Chica’s attention to him. “Text me when you get home.”

“I always do,” Ethan says, rolling his eyes. He gives one last goodbye and steps out of the house, closing the front door behind him. He takes a quick scan of the brightly lit sidewalks on either side of the house, then makes his way down towards his car.

He has his phone up to his ear before he’s even fully in the driver’s seat of the Tesla, gently setting his bag in the passenger’s seat. It rings out only once before the call connects.

“ _Why the hell didn’t you call back sooner? You fucking know you’re on call, Nestor._ ”

Ethan allows his head to thump back against the headrest, rubbing a hand down his face. “Listen, Miles, you know better than _anyone_ that keeping up appearances comes first. And, in case you weren’t aware, I have two extremely active channels and a pretty large social circle to tend to. Weren’t you the one who always told me that there’s no job without a decent cover?”

“ _You’ve been gettin’_ real _cocky these past few months, you know that?”_

Ethan shrugs, switching the call to come through the speakers. “Quarantine’s been boring, dude, gotta spice it up somehow.”

“ _Yeah, I saw on your Twitter that you got those cute little tattoos._ ”

“They _are_ cute,” Ethan says defensively, pulling out onto the road. “I thought the skull was funny. I thought about asking Jamie to include a gun in the commission somewhere, but I figured that would make people ask questions. At least with this, they just think it’s for Unus Annus.”

A soft snort sounds through the line. Ethan’s lips twitch it an approximation of a smile. “ _I’ll never understand how one of my best men is the same self-proclaimed_ ‘Soft Boi’ _with over a million subscribers that think he’s just some nice, clumsy idiot. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with as much versatility as you, not even your old man._ ”

“Hey, I like to think I’m nice,” Ethan argues. “Maybe not clumsy or soft, but I’m nice!”

“ _Yeah, yeah, sure you are; right up until I call you with a job._ ”

“Speaking of,” Ethan says pointedly, “do you actually _have_ a job for me or are we just shooting the shit?”

“ _Like I’d ever_ willingly _shoot the shit with you, ya fuckin’ psychopath_ ,” Miles grumbles, and Ethan laughs.

“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” he says fondly. “Tell me about the case.”

“ _Caucasian male, 34 years old. Name’s Lawrence Moore. Abusive fucker, apparently; wife contacted us, said recently he’s been coming home drunk and getting a little too handsy with their daughter. She’s a nice lady; not lookin’ to kill him, just scare him a bit. She’s in the process of filing for a divorce, neither her or the daughter should be an issue. I’ll text you the address, it’s about a three-hour drive from LA. Time isn’t a top priority, but I’d say it needs done within the week._ ”

Ethan rubs his eyes, huffing a sigh. “You want me to drive a total of six hours just to _scare_ some guy?”

“ _Hey, what you choose to do is entirely up to you, just as long as he stays alive and I don’t need to call in the clean-up crew. You’re better than that, Nestor._ ”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ethan mumbles. Generally, he tries not to get too involved with the cases but... “Miles? How old is the daughter?”

Miles’s voice drops into something softer, something Ethan’s only heard from him a handful of times.

“ _Eight._ ”

Ethan’s hands tighten around the wheel, knuckles blanching white.

“ _There’s a reason I assigned this case to you, Ethan. So you tell me right now: do I need to reassign?”_

Ethan swallows his anger, forces himself to take a measured breath.

“No, sir.”

* * *

Four years.

He’s had this job for four years, been in training for even longer, and it’s something he stops to think about sometimes.

He almost misses the simplicity of living in Maine, when he started up his YouTube channel both out of passion and at his dad’s encouragement. He remembers back when he was eighteen, how his dad had vouched for his lack of attendance at their family Thanksgiving, claiming that he was working overtime at the restaurant when he’d actually been at training. The whole “working as a restaurant manager” was a cover that was so often brought up, it nearly became true.

His dad moved to Maine when he retired from the work, smartly choosing Cape Elizabeth. It was only a twenty-minute drive from Portland, one of the agency’s main training centers. Ethan had been introduced to the life at age sixteen, and it had never occurred to him to do anything else. Training became too much to juggle with gymnastics and YouTube, so he quit gymnastics, though his training did become a bit more geared towards his natural skills with agility and coordination.

Mark contacting him and asking him to move to LA to be his full-time editor had coincided _perfectly_ with his completion of the training program. It’s been four years. Four years since he moved out to California and officially joined the agency.

Four years since his first kill.

He’s honestly lost count of how many he’s reached now, intentionally made himself forget because he’d been obsessed with it during his first few months and it had started to bleed into his daily life.

Still, there are times, times like these, where the job is _hard_. He hasn’t had a case like this in a long time, not since his major fuck-up back in 2018.

Miles is giving him a second chance, he knows. A shot at redemption. A chance to prove that he is capable of doing what he’s told, regardless of his own morals or opinions.

The hardest part about the case, honestly, is managing to cut eight hours out of his day to disappear without anyone getting suspicious about it. Kathryn asks, and Ethan claims he just needs a night...out.

Kathryn, wonderful as she is, doesn’t ask any questions; she merely pats him on the shoulder and tells him to be safe, to call if he needs anything.

Aside from that, the job is cake. Ethan spends the drive down slipping into the proper mindset, and when he gets there, it becomes comically easy.

He arrives at a quarter to midnight, and a quick scan shows the house to be empty when he cruises by. He parks a couple blocks down, spends half an hour getting a read on the neighbors, then walks down the street towards the house. The neighborhood is kind of dingy, several street lamps out and the sidewalk littered with wrappers and discarded masks.

He ducks around to the house’s tiny, fenced-in backyard, easily levers himself over the fence. He starts to pull out his pick-set, then huffs out a quiet laugh upon realizing he doesn’t even _need_ to pick the lock. Rather, the window to the right of the door is propped open.

He slips inside, wrinkles his nose at the state of the bathroom, then makes his way into the kitchen, bypassing the cluttered countertops and making for the living room to settle down on the sofa.

He waits for maybe an hour when Lawrence comes stumbling in through the front door. The reek of alcohol hits Ethan’s nose immediately.

It’s odd, _not_ killing the man. In all of his career, this is probably only the third case where he’s been explicitly asked not to kill the target. It makes it harder, in a lot of ways.

The man is large, burly, but Ethan has him on his ass in seconds, a taser pressed firm against the guy’s bicep. He fucks him up; breaks his nose and a couple of his fingers, dislocates his shoulder, and leaves him with a pretty nasty concussion.

“Touch either of them again and I won’t go _nearly_ as easy on you. Do you understand?”

The man whimpers out some approximation of “yes,” and Ethan fishes out the guy’s phone and stomps it to pieces on the floor, leaves the same way he came in. In and out, a fifteen-minute job.

Not his cleanest work, certainly, but then, he wasn’t given the job for it to be clean.

There’s blood crusted under his nails and drying on his knuckles when he calls Miles.

“Hey, it’s done.”

“ _You good, kid? You sound exhausted._ ”

“Fine, just ready to get to bed,” Ethan says. Not really a lie.

“ _Hey, you start getting tired behind the wheel, you pull over at a motel and stay there for the night. Your dad would kill me if I inadvertently got you killed._ ”

“Aww, you care,” Ethan teases, but he knows Miles truly does. “You know, you’ve always been my favorite.”

“ _I’m gonna tell Pete you said that_.”

Ethan laughs. A genuine, full laugh that fills his chest with something light. It’s a good feeling. Helps him feel a little more like himself.

A little more human.


	2. Chapter 2

Ethan drags the toe of his shoe through the loose dirt on the ground, a small cloud of dust swirling upward. It spreads and breaks apart by the time it reaches his chest, a soft haze suspended in the air.

There isn’t even a hint of a breeze. The air is stale, quickly transitioning from that comfortable early-morning warmth to a more stifling heat.

A brief glance at his watch shows it to be a quarter to ten, early enough to—hopefully—avoid filming during the hottest part of the day.

Evan is a couple feet away squinting down at the camera. Mark and Amy are still inside, presumably talking to the instructor. Melanie, who Ethan has only just introduced himself to, is seated at the bench, working silently.

Ethan’s eyes skim over the long, wooden table and the various items spread across it. A couple different cleaning kits, several small pistols, magazines _for_ said pistols, two AR-15 rifles, four pairs of protective glasses, and a box of ear plugs. Nothing too out of the ordinary, as far as he can see.

“You know anything about guns?”

Ethan’s eyes dart up to Melanie. She pauses in her process of cleaning one of the pistols, cocks her head at him.

He clears his throat, shaking his head. “No, I uh...not really.”

“Scared of ‘em?” she asks, and Ethan almost laughs. He’s grateful that he’s wearing his mask; it hides the way his lips twitch.

“I mean, I don’t think so. I’ve never had any bad experiences with them or anything,” he says, and she shrugs, eyes falling back to her task.

“Well,” she starts, deft hands quickly reassembling the handgun, “you’d be surprised.”

Ethan doesn’t reply, opts instead to look a little closer at the guns. The AR-15s are standard; while these look to be a bit older than the ones he’s used to, he doubts they’ll function much different. The pistols, too, are very simple M1911s.

Nothing special, nothing he hasn’t used before. Knowing this helps, in a way. Being in familiar territory, it instinctually makes him more comfortable, less jittery.

But at the same time, it’s almost worse. He knows his way around these weapons, inside and out. He’ll have to put on one hell of a show to convince everyone that he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

 _Fuck_ , he’s glad he persuaded Mark into having everyone do those acting and improv classes a few years ago. They’re really paying off.

“Hey, man, you good?” Evan’s voice pulls him from his inner turmoil. Ethan smiles at him, despite his mouth being hidden by his mask.

“Yeah, I’m fine. You sure you don’t want to try this at all?” he asks, gesturing to the range with a sweep of his arms. Evan smiles, eyes still focused on the camera, and shakes his head.

“I’m okay. Besides, I think you and Mark are gonna have fun.”

“Not _too_ much fun,” calls a new voice. Ethan looks over, shielding his eyes from the blinding sun. Mark and Amy are tailing behind the instructor, who Ethan has yet to properly meet.

“Of course,” Ethan agrees, shifting back a step when the man stops a little too close to him. “I’m Ethan, it’s great to meet you.”

“I’m Zach, and I’m assuming you’ve already met Mel.”

Ethan nods.

“Evan, we about ready to start?” Mark asks, and Evan flashes a thumbs-up.

“Just give me another minute or two. Amy, can you come take a look at this?” Evan says, and Amy hums, walking over with a bubbly, “Whatcha need?”

“I just want to check the lighting here,” Evan mumbles, and while the pair resolve the problem, Ethan watches the way Mark looks over the guns on the table, the way his eyes linger on the rifles.

 _Aww, he’s nervous_ , Ethan thinks, and he laughs quietly. Mark glances over at him, frowning.

“What are you giggling about over there?”

Ethan raises his hands defensively, grinning. “Nothing, nothing.”

Evan and Amy get the cameras sorted out and Mark takes the lead for the intro.

“I don’t know anything about guns,” Mark announces. “Ethan doesn’t know anything about guns. So today, we’re here with Zach and Mel, and they’re going to be teaching us how to handle guns _safely_ , and how to shoot.”

Zach shifts, opting to focus on Mark instead of the camera Amy has on him. “You told me you guys have done archery, right?”

“Yes,” Mark says, nodding.

“Now, if you ask me, and if you ask a lot of people, firing an arrow is a lot harder and a lot more technical than firing a gun,” Zach says. “The issue is, a lot of people I teach here who have experience with bows try to apply those skills here, when they’re completely different. So I want the two of you to purge your minds of what you think you know.”

Zach gestures towards the table. “Let’s get started.”

They spend the first half an hour going over basic terminology and how to clean the handguns safely, how to disassemble and reassemble.

Ethan has to force himself not to zone out, not to let the muscle memory take over. It’s hard, harder than it has any right to be.

“Dude, are you shaking?” Mark asks, his voice pitching high with incredulity.

“Shut up,” Ethan mutters, sliding the barrel back onto the gun with a quiet _shick_.

Mel commends his work, and it takes Mark another five minutes of struggling, reluctantly asking for help, until his pistol is reassembled.

“Now, onto the shooting. So a few things before we get started. First rule, always assume the gun is loaded. Now this may sound like common sense, but when that gun is in your hands, you always make sure you know where it’s pointed. Loaded or not, you _always_ keep it pointed away from people. When you’re not firing, keep your trigger-finger up on the frame of the gun. _Never_ rest it on the trigger.”

Ethan’s throat bobs. His gaze cuts over to Evan’s camera, and he can’t help but speak up. “I just- I think this a good time to just point out that guns _aren’t_ toys. Mark and I are being _very_ safe here and, for the love of, e-everything you hold dear to you, do _not_ fuck around with stuff like this.”

Zach nods. “Excellent point. Now, make sure your pistols are clear.”

He demonstrates how to remove the magazine and rack the slide. He removes the rounds from the magazine and reinserts it into the gun.

Once again, Ethan struggles not to rush ahead, knows he could do this is just a couple seconds.

He makes himself struggle, feigns confusion, lets Mark finish the steps before him.

They determine that Mark’s dominant eye is his right and Ethan’s is his left. Ethan knows this of course, has known this since he was sixteen.

Then they move onto proper grip and stance. Zach has the two of them line up, facing the range, with a five-foot gap between them.

“Stand and hold the gun how you _think_ you’re supposed to,” Zach tells them.

And Ethan- he- he just can’t. _Can’t_ hold the gun improperly. His body physically won’t let him.

“Very nice,” Zach says. He gestures to Mark, taking a slight step closer to him. “May I?”

“Oh yeah, man, of course,” Mark says, and Zach adjusts his stance, pushes his shoulder to make him lean forward a bit. Then moves his hands against the gun. Small, minuscule shifts of his grip.

“Better,” Zach says, nodding. He looks over at Ethan, then pauses, blinking. He walks over to him, assessing.

“You- flawless, actually. I’m surprised.”

Ethan preens a little at the praise, winking at Mark’s disgruntled face just because he can, and because the viewers will probably get a kick out of it.

“So, you guys ready to shoot for real?”

Zach takes the pistols from them and loads one, hands the empty one off to Mel. He looks between the two of them.

Ethan lets Mark go first. Wants to get a read on him and whether to legitimately try or not.

Mark’s shot flies too high, missing the paper target. Watching him, Ethan wants to tell him to straighten his right arm more, to bring it almost to the point of locking, to bring his left foot a tad bit forward to help maintain his balance better.

But he can’t.

He swallows down the words as they build in his throat.

Mark carefully hands the gun back to Zach, mindful of the fact that it’s loaded, and he looks over at Ethan.

“There’s a little more recoil than I expected for such a small gun,” Mark comments, and Ethan laughs.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, smiling. “So do I go now?”

Zach hands him the pistol.

The metal is warm and familiar against his palm, a weight that soothes the tension pooling in his lower back. This fucking video is going to be the death of him.

He takes aim.

Not at the paper target. Instead, he locks onto a tree to the left of the target, a couple yards further back.

He squeezes the trigger.

The bullet sends a shower of bark outward. It doesn’t hit the tree dead-center, a little further left than he’d intended, and Ethan curses himself for it.

He evidently needs to practice more.

Maybe he should schedule a day with Pete later this week.

Blinking, he lowers the gun, shrugging as he turns to face the camera.

“Not bad,” Mark says, sounding genuine. “Dude, at least you hit _something_.”

Zach clears his throat. “One thing I will say, Ethan, is most people who have crossed hand and eye dominance like you tend to struggle more with accuracy. It’s something that really only comes with practice, unfortunately.”

Ethan nods.

“But both of you need to make sure you hold your breath when you’re firing. It’ll help with both of your accuracy in general,” Zach adds.

They continue on like this for a while, getting a little better each time. Mark whoops when he hits a slightly-too-high-but-close-enough bullseye.

So they move onto the heavier artillery. Rifles.

They take a five-minute intermission to move the cameras to the new range, with further targets, and Ethan sips at his water bottle.

Then they’re filming again.

Zach reexplains the basics of proper handling and stance, and he hands the gun over to let Mark take a crack at it.

The bullet hits the dirt, too low, but Ethan is more focused on the way Mark stumbles back, damn-near knocked on his ass by the recoil.

Ethan clenches his jaw to hide his laughter, pretends instead to be shocked by the gun’s kickback.

“Wait wait, let me try again. I’ll prepare for it this time,” Mark argues. He fires again, this time staying firmly in place, but the bullet still hits low.

Another attempt, and it’s the same thing.

Mark grumbles in frustration. “I don’t _get_ it. Are the-the sights off on this? Cuz I’m aiming right at the target, I _swear_ I am.”

“Maaaaark, you love physics!” Ethan says. Mark turns to him, eyebrows drawn together at the seemingly random remark.

Ethan nearly rolls his eyes. “Think about it. The closer you are to a target, the easier it’s going to be to hit, because the bullet isn’t traveling as far. It’s the same thing with archery: the further you get, the higher you have to aim, to compensate for the drop.”

Ethan makes grabby hands for the rifle. Mark slowly hands it off to him and Ethan brings the stock up to his shoulder, takes a moment to zero in, and fires.

Not the bullseye Ethan wants it to be, not the bullseye it _should_ be, but damn close.

He brings the rifle down, looks over with this bright grin because _ha Mark funny bit right? Nice comedic timing, right? I’m clearly a natural at this and you aren’t. Right?_

Except-

Mark isn’t the only one staring at him. Zach is too.

“What?” Ethan laughs nervously, glancing from the target and back at him.

“Have you done this before?”

And maybe it shouldn’t, but the question honestly takes Ethan by surprise.

“Why- what makes you say that?”

“You just,” Zach gestures, “I don’t know. Your stance is firm, but not rigid. Most beginners struggle with that.”

Mark shoots the camera a sheepish look.

“And you know about bullet drop. Shot was right on the money. _And_ ,” Zach continues, “you absorbed that kickback like a pro.”

Ethan struggles for a second, mouth opening, closing. Mark is looking at him now, gaze scrutinizing.

“I, uh...” Ethan latches onto the first thing that pops into his mind. “In- in _The Last of Us 2_ , there’s this part where they shoot long-range and it explains bullet drop. I guess I learned it from there.”

He shrugs, hands the rifle back to Zach and plays it off with a quiet laugh, and Zach moves on, but he doesn’t look particularly convinced and, looking over at him, Mark doesn’t either.

_Fuck._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn't distinctly clear in the last chapter, I have zero experience with handling guns, so I'm sorry if I get stuff wrong :/

Ethan chews the inside of his lip, lowering the pistol as his eyes rake over the human outline that is his target. He’s been here for going on three hours now, hands cramping and elbows starting to lock up from his incessant shooting.

He hasn’t missed any shots, if one excludes his warmups, but that’s not the problem. The problem is, his shots aren’t _on the mark_.

Well, that’s not true. _Most_ of them are. _Most_ of them have pierced the styrofoam heart and head of the dummy.

But not _all_ of them have.

And that-

That kind of pisses him off, to be honest.

 _Four years of training and I can’t make a fucking kill shot from 15 yards?_ Ethan scoffs at himself. He ejects the magazine from the pistol, racks the slide, and sets it down, carefully, on the table behind him. Quick, practiced motions.

 _The target wasn’t even_ moving, _for fuck’s sake_.

He rips his earplugs out and drops them in the trashcan, tosses his protective glasses on the table.

He hears a soft knock on the door as he’s cleaning up his station. He hardly looks up. “Come in.”

“I could sense your frustration from across the damn range.” It’s Pete. His familiar, fluid Midwestern accent eases a small amount of the tension in Ethan’s shoulders.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, ducking around him to step out and return his equipment.

“Ooh, someone’s feisty today,” Pete drawls. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

Ethan, unbidden, glances over at his target on the range. Pete, ever observant, notices.

“Ahh,” he says in understanding.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ethan says tightly. _Especially with the best marksman in LA._

Pete raises his hands, a placating gesture.

“Alright, fine, so we don’t talk about it,” he says, in a way that Ethan recognizes as _we’re going to end up talking about it_.

He sighs, adjusts his mask on the bridge of his nose. “Fine, just- can it wait? I want to get lunch before Cafeteria closes.”

“Sure,” Pete says, bobbing his head. They begin the short walk.

Pete’s a good guy. He’s been in charge of the gun range at the center since Ethan moved here, and, despite his old age and horrible dad jokes, Ethan considers him to be a close friend.

 _If Pete was an animal,_ Ethan thinks offhandedly, _he’d be a panda. Big, intimidating, but a softie. The hair color even matches._

He chortles at his own line of thought. Pete glances over at him but doesn’t comment on it. Most of the people here are used to his antics by now.

“So,” Pete starts, once they’re seated and Ethan is unwrapping his sandwich. He combs a hand through his salt and pepper hair, hunches over his growing beer belly to lean his arms on the table.

“So,” Ethan echoes. He pulls down his mask and takes a bite of the sandwich, and already he feels a bit better for it.

“What, you miss a few shots or something? Have a bad streak? Happens to all of us.”

Ethan shakes his head, swallowing.

“No, I- I didn’t _miss_.” He’s a bit offended Pete thinks so low of him. “I just- the shots weren’t- they didn’t land where I wanted them to. And the longer I kept trying, the worse I got.”

Pete quirks an eyebrow, reaches across the small table to push his hand down on Ethan’s shoulder. Ethan winces at the pressure, and he drops his shoulders. Hadn’t even realized they’d been drawn up so tight. The releasing of tension echoes down his rigid spine, and he slumps forward, groaning a little. Fuck, he needs a massage or something.

“See, there’s your problem,” Pete says, leaning back with this little glimmer in his eye. “You wind yourself up too much. That much tension, it’s a wonder you can land a shot at all.”

Ethan makes a faint noise of protest. “I was in training for _four years_ , Pete. I should be able to land a couple kill shots from fifteen yards, _easy_. The circumstances don’t matter.”

Pete makes a face like he bit into a lemon. “I don’t-”

He heaves a sigh, presses his fingers into temples. “Christ, Nestor, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

He leans forward again, face falling into a seriousness that Ethan rarely sees on him.

“Listen. Here’s the thing, kid: you were practicing with a handgun, right? You don’t _have_ to be able to make a kill shot from that distance. Nine times out of ten, you’ll be using your handgun in self-defense, and self-defense range is rarely further than _seven_ yards.”

Ethan grumbles, picking at his sandwich with a black-painted nail. Pete continues.

“Nobody’s perfect. Some people pick it up more naturally than others, and from what Miles has told me, you used to struggle a lot back in basic.”

True as it is, it still makes Ethan prickle defensively.

“Shush, shut up, I’m not done,” Pete snaps when Ethan opens his mouth. “Now, that being _said_ , you’re one of the finest marksmen I’ve had the opportunity to work with. _And,_ aside from the one a few weeks ago, you haven’t worked a case in months. It’s _normal_ to be rusty after going so long without practice. So quit kicking yourself over a few stray bullets and eat your damn sandwich.”

Ethan grumbles, but he does eat the sandwich.

* * *

 _Part of it_ , he realizes, as he’s stepping out of the center and walking to his car, _part of it might be because of Unus Annus._

Ethan hadn’t really considered that, that the channel’s ending would impact him in his other areas of work, but it kind of makes sense.

The ending livestream had been fun, but absolutely exhausting at the same time. Twelve hours of watching old videos and looking through the subreddit and reminiscing? Oh it was great. The memes and fanart were absolutely amazing. Getting the tattoo live on stream had been a fun surprise (though it had hurt bad enough to make him a little bit faint). Then Mark had gotten that stupid white top hat and gave Ethan and Amy those custom pocket watches.

And, of course, they’d laid in the casket and given each other eulogies. That one had nearly made him cry, hearing Mark praise him like that, hearing him ad lib about how Ethan would do great things, how he’s proud of him. Makes him think about the type of eulogy Mark might give him when he actually does die.

He’s going to miss it. But, at the same time, it’s so _nice_ to be free from the pressing weight of that responsibility. He’d had to cancel on _so many_ cases because of filming for the channel.

But it was worth it in the end, and Ethan’s going to miss it.

But now he can start getting back into the swing of things, back into what he was _meant_ for.

He pokes at his belly, frowning as he folds himself into his car. Between quarantine and being too busy to work with his trainer, he’s put on a bit of padding that he’s not exactly fond of.

Oh well. Once he really gets back into routine with Andre, he’ll tone up again pretty fast. He’s not too concerned about it.

Ethan jumps, muscles locking, as his phone vibrates in his pocket. He wiggles it free and slides up on the call.

“Hang on a sec, I need to transfer the call to my car,” Ethan says before Mark can get in a word edgewise. Ethan props the phone on its mount and adjusts the volume coming through his speakers. He drags his lanyard, keycard swinging in the air, up over his head and tucks it into the center console along with his mask. He throws the car in reverse and backs out of his parking space. “Go ahead.”

“ _Hey man, just calling to see if you maybe wanted to come over, like around noon or something_.”

Ethan glances over at his phone screen. It’s 11:03, he’ll barely have enough time to run home before heading to Mark’s. He looks both ways and pulls out onto the busy street. “I, uh. Sure, man. Did I leave some stuff at your place or something?”

Mark huffs a breathy laugh into the phone. “ _No, no, nothing like that. Amy and I just wanted to know if you wanted to get lunch with us. Plus, I wanted to discuss something with you._ ”

Ethan’s stomach does a weird little flip. “Did something happen?”

“ _Nothing bad_ ,” Mark says in a rush, seeming to latch on to Ethan’s sudden fear. “ _Just want to look at some potential stuff for the future, you know?”_

And- why does that make Ethan’s heart kick up a notch?

“Yeah, sure,” he says, nodding. “Can I bring Spencer?”

“ _Of course_ ,” Mark says. “ _I think Chica misses him_.”

Ethan scoffs out a laugh. “Mark, it’s been, like, a week. We’ve gone longer this year without seeing each other.”

Mark makes a small noise of acknowledgement, the sound a low rumble. “ _Guess that’s true_.”

A beat of silence.

Then, “ _What do you want from Taco Bell? Amy wants to know if you want to share an order of those cinnamon ball things._ ”

Ethan laughs. “Yeah, sure, sounds good. Just do those and, like, a taco or something. I just had a sandwich so I’m not that hungry.”

“ _Will do. See you at twelve._ ”

“Yup, buh-bye.”

“ _Bye_.” Ethan ends the call, slumping back against the seat. He jerks his hand away when he notices that he’s subconsciously been rubbing at his newest tattoo, at the sensitive skin on his left forearm.

“Memento mori,” he says softly to himself, gaze flicking from the tattoo back up to the road.

With the brutal Tuesday afternoon traffic, he doesn’t end up getting to Mark’s until ten after, having stopped at home for a quick shower and change of clothes, and to grab Spencer.

“Honey, I’m home!” Ethan calls as he pushes open the front door with his hip. He bends down to set Spencer on the floor, readjusting the straps of his backpack on his shoulders.

Rather than getting a response from Mark, he gets a response in the form of Chica’s nails clicking as she races towards the front door.

“Hey, Beeks,” Ethan coos, patting her on the head when she reaches him. Hearing the low murmur of the television, Ethan toes off his shoes and makes his way towards the living room, Chica and Spencer trailing behind him.

He snorts out a laugh when he spots Amy leaning against the couch, blanket snug around her shoulders, watching _Elf_.

“You know it’s not even Thanksgiving yet, right?” Ethan says rhetorically, pulling his backpack off and setting it on the ground next to the sofa.

“It’s a good movie,” Amy says, cheerful as ever. She scoots to the side, patting the cushion next to her. “Mark hates it, so I figured it was only fair that I get to watch it as many times as he watches _The Grinch_.”

Ethan laughs at that, flops down on the sofa hard enough to make Amy bounce. “Where is he, by the way?”

Amy waves a hand dismissively. “Should be home soon. Traffic’s really bad right now.”

“Tell me about it,” Ethan groans dramatically, reaching over to steal a corner of the blanket for himself. Amy chuckles, pulls the blanket off of her shoulders and drapes it over both of their legs.

Not a second later, Chica hops up on the sofa to join them, wedging herself between the arm of the couch and Ethan, her head and front paws resting in his lap.

The warmth from Amy and Chica on either side of him and the low murmur of the TV are enough to make him drift off into a light doze.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he vaguely registers Amy shifting around, reaching over and pulling his glasses off of his face.

What feels like mere seconds later, he feels her shift beside him again. The TV goes silent, and the sudden change is enough to pull him out of the haze of sleep.

“Hey.” Mark’s voice is a low whisper. “How long has he been out?”

“Not long,” comes Amy’s soft reply. “Fifteen minutes, maybe.”

For a long moment, there is only silence, and Ethan is just starting to fall back asleep when he feels a warm palm pressing firm against his bicep.

“Hey, time to wake up, bud.”

Ethan blinks his eyes open, squinting blearily up at Mark.

“Hey,” he rasps, then clears his throat. “Wasn’t asleep.”

Mark snorts. “Yeah, sure you weren’t.”

“Wasn’t,” Ethan mumbles, pulling himself upright from his slumped position on the sofa. He leans forward to grab his glasses off the coffee table, slides them on.

“Still hungry? It’s only, like, twelve forty-five.”

Ethan hums, pushes himself to his feet. He’s not hungry, but he could eat.

“You’ve got lines,” Mark says, gesturing to his face with a small grin. “Have a good nap?”

“Shut up,” Ethan grumbles, rubbing at his cheek. He can feel how warm it is, the creases in his skin from pressing it against the couch.

He follows Mark into the kitchen, leans his hip against the cupboards next to Amy.

“I forgot how quiet you get when you first wake up,” Mark chuckles, pulling their food from the takeout bag. “It’s weird.”

Amy laughs a little into her cup of water. She nudges Ethan’s shoulder, a bright, teasing smile on her face. “Remember that first morning on the tour bus? It was like five in the morning, and you-” she waves a hand towards Mark, “-were in the middle of going through the itinerary and you just stopped and went: ‘wait, where’s Ethan?’”

Ethan huffs out a laugh, grinning. “Yeah, and I was sitting right in front of you.”

“You were being quiet!” Mark exclaims. “You’re _never_ quiet. I thought we left you behind or something.”

Ethan cackles, continues poking fun at Mark’s expense as they migrate to the dining table. Amy pulls up a chair for Ethan and they sit and eat, conversation flowing.

“You streaming today?” Ethan asks, glancing down at his watch. “It’s Tuesday.”

“Yup,” Mark says through a mouthful of taco. “Bob and Wade and I are gonna play more Raft. It’s been a while.”

Ethan hums, nodding. “Sounds fun. Do you know what time?”

Mark balls up the paper wrapper of his taco and wipes a napkin across the table to clean up bits of cheese and lettuce. “Not until two, so we have another hour. I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Are you both done?” Amy cuts in, standing. She smiles at their respective nods. “Let me take your trash.”

“Aww, Amy,” Ethan says, smiling all goofy. “Thank you!”

Her cheeks dimple and she ruffles his hair before plucking the food wrappers and discarded napkins from the table, disappearing into the kitchen.

“So,” Ethan says, turning to Mark, “you wanted to talk?”

“Uh, yeah,” Mark says slowly, staring after Amy’s retreating form. He’s got that suspicious look on his face, the one he makes when he’s just starting to realize something.

“So? What is it?” Ethan asks, chuckling nervously. He can’t help the way his heart thuds, the leaden weight of anxiety that settles in the pit of his stomach. Suddenly, he regrets eating as much as he did.

“Oh, yeah, right. Sorry,” Mark says, shaking his head. He turns back to Ethan, brows furrowing momentarily, then shooting up.

“Oh- wait, no, no, it’s not a bad thing!” Mark rushes out, guilt pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I promise, it’s not a bad thing. Sorry.”

Ethan lets out a long breath of air, and the tension in his shoulders unwinds a little. He pulls his drink close to him, sips at the Baja Blast just to have something to do.

“So,” Mark starts, pressing his palms to the table, “Unus Annus is over.”

Ethan can’t help but snort. “Excellent observation.”

“Hush,” Mark says, but his lips twitch up in a smile. “As I was _saying_ , Unus Annus is over, so we obviously aren’t going to collaborate as often.”

“Right,” Ethan nods. He- he’s totally lost; he has no clue where Mark is going with this. But he’s always been a rambler.

“So, I was thinking, since we’ve established that we have great on-camera chemistry- and, I haven’t, like, thought this out in detail or anything, but I was wondering if you wanted to do another series like Markiplier Makes, or something along those lines?”

Before Ethan can reply, Mark continues.

“Oh! And Ben and I have been talking about when to start working on Heist 2, and it won’t be for a couple more months, but I thought I’d ask if you want to help out again, like last time.”

Ethan blinks, takes a second to process all of the information.

“So,” he starts slowly, “you want to do more videos together.”

At Mark’s nod, he continues.

“And you want my help with Heist again.”

And Mark- Mark isn’t a shy person. But he goes quiet and shrugs a little, chewing his lip as he meets Ethan’s eyes. He’s uncharacteristically still.

“I can’t really imagine _not_ having you involved in some way or other,” Mark says, and the earnestness of his tone makes Ethan’s heart stutter in his chest.

“I-” Ethan hesitates, forces his thoughts into order. “I _do_ want to keep helping with Heist. I had a ton of fun last time with it. I just- we _just_ finished Unus Annus. I think maybe I need a break before getting wrapped up in another huge project.”

Mark nods. “Of course. No, totally, that makes sense. And you’ve got your own channel to worry about. And I know you wanted to work on that short film.”

Ethan hums a little. “Well, yeah. But- what if we did some smaller-scale stuff? Like, just one-off videos instead of a series. Did you want to do Unus Annus-style stuff or gaming stuff?”

Mark shrugs. “Either? Both.”

“I think that sounds fun,” Ethan says. “We can definitely set something up.”

Mark’s posture slumps forward, just a tad, and the corners of his eyes go soft. The sudden relief is a stark change; Ethan hadn’t even noticed the nervous tension until it fled.

But before Ethan can ask about it, Mark is standing, an easy smile on his face. “Alright, well, I’m going to go set up for the stream. If you want to stay and hang out, you can. It’s up to you.”

With that, Mark walks out of the room, giving Ethan’s shoulder a brief squeeze as he passes by.

Ethan- doesn’t know what to make of it. Of _any_ of it. The whole interaction was so unlike Mark’s usual self. The worry, the stillness, hell, even the touching at the end. Mark doesn’t really _do_ casual touching.

It’s weird.

“Hey, you okay?”

Ethan blinks, looks over at Amy.

“Huh?” He clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

She doesn’t really look like she believes him, but she does drop the look of concern, replacing it with a softer smile.

“You wanna come watch _Polar Express_ with me?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so late! I've been super busy with finals and classes and family, but I have NOT given up on this fic, even if updates are sporadic.

Ethan doesn’t really know when he’d stopped paying attention to the movie; in fact, he only realizes just how lost he is in his own thoughts when he’s abruptly pulled from them, courtesy of Amy’s head falling against his shoulder.

Ethan blinks, then looks over at her. As if sensing the weight of his gaze, she shifts, brow furrowing.

“You’re so bony,” she murmurs, and when Ethan’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter, her frown deepens.

“Sorry, sorry,” Ethan whispers, biting back giggles. He slowly ducks his shoulder down, then pulls away entirely.

Amy huffs, though the movement does seem to wake her up a bit, and she squints up at him when he stands. “What are you doing?”

He gestures vaguely in the direction of the kitchen. “I’m gonna make some hot cocoa. Want some?”

Amy declines, and she resituates herself so that she’s lying down on the couch properly, rolling away from the TV and pulling the throw blanket over her head.

Ethan smiles at her behavior, then makes for the kitchen, searching through the cabinets on autopilot. He notes the pile of Pop-Tart boxes pushed off to the side, moved from their previous location in the food pantry.

 _Guess he finally did the taste-test video_ , Ethan thinks with a slight shake of his head, smiling.

It takes entirely too long to find the hot cocoa mix, as it’s pushed to the back of the snack cupboard and hidden behind a box of protein bars. Ethan checks and double-checks that the cocoa powder isn’t expired, then sets about gathering the rest of his needed supplies—milk, whipped cream, spoons, and mugs.

Despite how simple the hot chocolate is to make, the action of it soothes him, the way cooking often does. He even uses two of Amy’s nice ceramic mugs, handling them far more carefully than he would with a regular mug.

After adding a nice helping of cream to one of the mugs (his own, of course), he tidies up the counter, then grabs the second mug of cocoa and carefully makes his way out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

Not even halfway down the hallway to Mark’s recording room, he can hear him shouting—even despite the sound-proof paneling on the walls.

It brings a grin to Ethan’s face, and he waits for a lull in the yelling before knocking lightly on the door. He hears faint mumbling, impossible to make out, and a few beats of silence before the door is being pulled open.

“Hey, Ames, what’s- _Ethan?”_

The incredulity of Mark’s voice brings heat to Ethan’s cheeks and a sheepish smile to his lips. He drags his fingers through his hair and his gaze bounces from Mark, to the computer, then back again. “Uh, hey.”

The look of shock on Mark’s face vanishes beneath a slew of other emotions, flashing so quickly that Ethan can’t get a read on them, when his expression finally seems to settle somewhere between confused and fond.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here. What’s up?” Mark asks, hand still resting on the doorknob. He pulls his headphones down around his neck, and Ethan can hear the muted tones of Wade’s voice coming through. Mark’s voice is entirely welcoming, but the subtle tilt of his head and quirk of his eyebrow says something else. _Are you okay?_

Ethan, wondering just when exactly he’d gotten so good at reading Mark, flashes a bright smile in response. He slowly brings the mug up to chest level, drawing Mark’s attention to it.

“Sorry for interrupting, I just- I made you hot chocolate,” he says, and briefly, he wonders if the mic can pick up their voices from this distance.

Mark blinks at him, lips parting in surprise.

A second later, he’s absolutely beaming.

“You- aww,” Mark says, and he carefully takes the mug from Ethan. He slowly walks back over to his desk, setting the mug down next to his mousepad. He presses a few keys on the keyboard, gesturing for Ethan to come fully into the room without pulling his eyes from the screen.

“Guys,” Mark says, voice goofy and warm as Ethan steps inside and shuts the door behind him. “Ethan made me _hot cocoa_.”

Ethan is suddenly, inexplicably breathless, and he swallows against the rising emotion that creeps up his throat. He doesn’t hear the responses from either Bob or Wade, but he’d have to be blind not to see the sudden explosion of comments on Mark’s Twitch chat, pulled up on his second monitor. They fly by so quickly that it’s damn near impossible to read them.

Mark glances over his shoulder at him, his glare playful and lacking ire. “You’ve officially murdered my chat. Thanks, asshole.”

Ethan steps up to Mark’s side, eyes roving over the chat. He winces in sympathy. “Sorry, mods.”

Mark waves a hand dismissively, falling back into his chair.

“You can turn on emote-only, if you want,” Mark says, then taps a few keys and swivels the chair around, attention on Ethan. His tone even changes, though Ethan can’t place exactly how. “I’m muted; I’ll be finishing up here in the next half hour or so. And Bob and Wade say ‘hi.’”

Then Mark smiles, softer this time, and it’s the same smile he often directs towards Amy. “Thank you for the hot cocoa. That was very sweet of you.”

And Ethan is hyper-aware of the way his neck and ears go hot, the way his heart thumps, quick and heavy, against his ribs. He ducks his gaze, suddenly unable to meet the sincerity in Mark’s eyes.

“Yeah, uh. I’m- yeah,” he says lamely. “Tell them I said ‘hi,’ too. I’ll just be- I’ll be downstairs.”

He thinks he can hear Mark’s soft laughter as he flees the room.

Tom Hanks is punching “BELIEVE” into the boy’s ticket when Ethan returns to the living room. Unable to focus, he pulls out his phone and downloads a Pokémon emulator, carefully bringing his mug of cocoa from the kitchen counter to the coffee table. He nudges Amy’s feet away and sits down, and almost immediately, she stretches back out and her feet are resting in his lap.

He gets as far downloading _Pokémon: Fire Red_ and finishing the first battle when he gets bored again, exiting the app and opting to scroll through Twitter instead. He replies to a couple tweets from Kooly and Amber, and after a few minutes, he finds himself being roped into playing Among Us tomorrow night on stream, in a lobby with Amber, Jason, Chris, Granny, and a few other friends.

“Cute.” Mark’s voice, low and unexpected, has Ethan jolting, nearly flinging his phone across the room in his surprise. He quickly regains his composure, but not before Mark walks into the room, giggling at him.

“Asshole,” Ethan huffs half-heartedly. He forces his lips to slant down into a frown but finds it impossible to keep them there when he sees Mark’s grinning face.

He’s got both hands wrapped around his mug of hot cocoa and he’s taken his contacts out, replaced them with his round, rimless glasses that Ethan hasn’t seen him wear in a while. That, paired with the grey Sherpa hoodie he must’ve thrown on before coming downstairs, he looks pretty cozy.

“You guys watched _Polar Express_ without me?” Mark says, and he sounds wounded as he settles his weight against the arm of the sofa, half-leaning and half-sitting. His thigh is a warm, firm line against Ethan’s right arm.

Ethan scoffs, drops his phone into his lap. “Since when do you care about any Christmas movie that isn’t _The Grinch?”_

Mark hums as if to say, _yeah, you’ve got a point_ , and then he goes quiet, brows furrowing in a picture of careful thoughtfulness. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

Ethan shifts in his seat, chewing his lip. “Sure, if- can I- if I can ask you something, too?”

“Of course, man,” Mark nods, bringing the mug up to his lips to take a sip.

“Well, I mean,” he starts, glancing over at Amy’s sleeping form. He lowers his voice. “How come you didn’t- y’know? During the ending livestream.”

Mark tilts his head, brings his mug down and clasps his hands back around it. “You mean propose?”

Ethan nods. “I mean, all the fans were expecting it.” The _‘and so was I’_ goes unsaid. “The timing would’ve been great.”

“Well,” Mark hums, sounding nonchalant, but he suddenly looks troubled, conflicted. “We’ve talked about marriage before. Me and Amy, I mean. And I think I’ve mentioned it in videos that getting married was never really, like, a big thing to me? I don’t know, it’s- it’s kind of hard to explain, but I really do think we’re happier the way we are. I love her, I really do, but I don’t particularly want to marry her.” Then, after a beat, he adds, “Marriage just seems kind of pointless, if you ask me.”

Ethan nods again, because that makes sense, and he ignores the gnawing ache in his chest that wishes for a relationship like that. He clears his throat a little, more than eager to change topics. “So? What did you want to ask me?”

“Oh, yeah,” Mark says, and he hesitates, uneasiness creeping to the corners of his eyes and the thin line of his lips. “I don’t.... Look, I really don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Ethan frowns a little, tucking his hands under his thighs to keep himself from jittering. “What’s this about?”

Mark sighs. “Remember last week, when we filmed the gun range video?”

Ethan, very consciously, forces himself not to stiffen. In a voice too casual, he says, “Yeah, what about it?”

They haven’t talked about it; haven’t talked about the way Ethan had gotten closed off and distant during the last twenty minutes of filming, or the way he was silent for nearly the whole drive home.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want,” Mark says quietly. “Just know that Amy and me? We’re here if you ever want to.”

Ethan’s throat closes up. He bites the inside of his cheek, nodding.

Fuck. What must Mark be thinking about the whole thing? Clearly, he’s worried or else he wouldn’t have brought it up. But why? Does he suspect anything?

A sharp jolt rushes through him, a sudden, nearly overwhelming desire to tell Mark the truth. To tell him _everything_.

He swallows and clears his throat. His heart pounds in his chest.

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

* * *

Ethan is in the middle of recording when he gets a text from Miles, and he forces himself to ignore it, to push it to the back of his mind until he’s done, because he’s going to be the one editing this video, and he wants it as seamless as possible.

It’s his two million subscriber video. It’s few days late, but he’s been streaming almost daily since Christmas Eve. It’s a short little thing, mostly just thanking the community and talking about the new friends he’s made over the course of the year, as well as hinting a little bit about future plans. He wraps it up quickly, having already hit the main points he wanted to talk about.

Standing up, he turns off his camera and stretches his arms above his head, groaning.

“Okay,” he exhales, flopping back down in his chair and grabbing his phone from the desk.

The text simply says: _call me._

Huffing a sigh, he taps his phone and raises it to his ear, humming as it rings.

“Hey,” he says as the call connects.

“ _Congrats on the two mil_ ,” Miles says, and Ethan’s eyes narrow.

“What do you want?”

“ _I’ve got a case for you_ ,” Miles says, bluntly. Ethan blinks in surprise.

“Wha- really?”

Miles grumbles. “ _Did I stutter?”_

“Miles,” Ethan starts slowly, “the last one was only, like, a month ago.”

“ _Listen, Nestor, here’s the thing: Charlie is halfway across the state with family right now and we’re short-staffed as it is. I’d put Will on it, but we both know how bad he is with rookies_.”

Ethan frowns. “Why do you need someone who can handle rookies?”

Miles is silent for a beat too long, and Ethan groans. “Miles, do _not_ tell me you’re assigning me a _training_ case.”

“ _For fuck’s sake_ ,” Miles hisses, “ _there’s only so much I can do here. We_ need _this spot filled. If Rachel had given a bit of warning before retiring it wouldn’t have been an issue, but as it is, you’re my only real option._ ”

Ethan swallows the urge to whine, to argue, and huffs a frustrated sigh instead, tongue running over his teeth. “Fine. When do you need me in for briefing?”

“ _It’s not exactly urgent. Send me your schedule for the week and we’ll draw out a time that works for everyone._ ”

“Sounds good,” Ethan agrees, picking at the cracked polish on his nails. His lips quirk into a small smile. “And thanks, about the two million.”

Miles’s voice goes warm through the line. “ _You deserve it, kiddo_.”

Ethan grumbles, eying Spencer’s sleeping form on the couch.

“You gotta stop spending so much time with Pete. He used to be the only one who called me that. And besides,” he continues, “you’re only, what, twenty-eight? You’re not even that much older than me.”

“ _Twenty-nine, birthday was the eighteenth._ ”

Ethan rolls his eyes, grinning. “Well, happy late birthday, but I still don’t think that’s _that_ old.”

Miles chortles, the sound crackling. “ _Yeah, well, that’s because your buddy Mark is in his thirties. You’re biased._ ”

Something about the way Miles says ‘buddy’ throws Ethan off, makes him frown. He says it as if using air-quotes. As if it’s a lie. “What do you mean?”

“ _Ah, don’t worry about it. I gotta go file some paperwork. Don’t forget to email me your schedule. I want this job sorted out and finished within the next two weeks._ ”

Ethan chews at his lip, but finally just dismisses it, marks it up to the late hour.

“Sure,” he bobs his head. “Hey, happy early New Year.”

Miles scoffs. “ _Yeah, let’s hope 2021 treats us better_.”

Ethan hums in agreement, and he pulls the phone away when the call ends. He rises to his feet and crams his phone into his pocket, stepping around his recording set-up.

“Hey, Spence,” he coos, and Spencer lifts his head, ears perking up. “Ready for bed?”

At the familiar words, Spencer hops down off the couch and trots over to the door, looking back at Ethan as he waits.

Ethan grins, walking over and leaning down to drag his fingers through the pup’s fur before opening the door. “Good boy, bubba.”

He unlocks the door and pulls it open, and Spencer slips out of the room, making a beeline for the stairs, and Ethan’s bedroom.

Ethan stops in the kitchen just long enough to refill Spencer’s water dish, then makes for his bedroom as well, scrolling through his Twitter drafts as he shuffles through the house.

**go-to gas station food, go.**

He doesn’t remember even writing the Tweet, but he posts it to his alt account anyway, just because.

Setting his phone on his nightstand, he goes about getting ready for bed, stripping out of a _soft boi_ hoodie to replace it with a threadbare tee shirt and an old pair of shorts that he doesn’t remember getting.

Flicking off the bedroom light, Ethan throws himself onto the bed and burrows under the covers. A quiet _fwump_ and lurch down at the foot of the bed signifies Spencer’s arrival. He pads up to Ethan and flops down by his side, his cold nose pressing against Ethan’s jaw.

“Goodnight, mister,” he says, and Spencer answers with a yawn, his breath a warm, gross gust across Ethan’s face.

Ethan wrinkles his nose, huffing, but he can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips. No matter what happens over the next few days or weeks or year, at least he’s got his little bunko funk by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More action in the next chapter!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this a month late? Absolutely. Do I have excuses? Absolutely. Are they valid excuses? Probably not.  
> But in all seriousness, I am sorry about the delay on the chapter, especially considering that it's more of a filler than anything else, but! we meet a new character here, so that's exciting!
> 
> Also, I would like to make it clear that, since I'm so far behind the actual current events (this chapter is set in early January), things might not be accurate to real life. For example, I know Mark's been working on writing Heist 2 irl, but in this fic, he hasn't started working on it yet. If you guys have questions, let me know!

Ethan rests his chin in his palm, leg bouncing under the desk. He chews his lip, glances at his wrist to check the time. Huffing out a quiet breath, he brings a hand up to rake his fingers through his hair, eyes flitting across Miles’s sparsely furnished desk.

To the left of Miles’s closed laptop, facing away from Ethan’s chair, is a picture frame. Despite being unable to see it right now, Ethan has before—had actually been there when it was taken—and he knows the image is the one from the baby shower, with Miles in tears, grinning, and his very pregnant wife hugging him.

The memory of that day, three years ago now, makes Ethan smile.

On the opposite side of the laptop is a thin sheaf of papers, stacked neatly. The paper on top is very plain, with only four words:

** CONFIDENTIAL **

**PROPERTY OF ACCS**

_Has to be the case file_ , Ethan thinks, fairly sure. Miles has always been pretty orderly, and it wouldn’t be sitting out otherwise.

He debates reaching for it, but ultimately decides against it. Despite the fact that Miles left it out, it _does_ say that it’s confidential, and Ethan isn’t particularly in the mood to get reprimanded.

He’s just drawing his phone out of his pocket, with the intent of grinding a few levels in _Pokémon: Fire Red_ , when the door behind him clicks and swings open. He turns, eyes locking immediately on the person shuffling in behind Miles.

He’s _young_. Even with the mask covering the bottom half of his face, it’s the first thing Ethan notices about him. His shoulders are drawn tight and he almost seems to fold in on himself, gaze slowly ticking up from the floor.

Then his eyes meet Ethan’s, and his entire persona flips, the shyness replaced with wide-eyed shock.

“No way,” the kid says.

The change is so sudden that Ethan’s brows furrow, and he shoots a sideways glance to Miles to ask why the kid is so surprised when-

“You...you’re CrankGameplays!”

Oh. Oh _no_.

Ethan swallows, fights the urge to groan aloud, to smash his head into the desk. Instead, he smiles, though his mouth is hidden by his mask. “Yep, sure am.”

The kid’s eyes fucking _glow_ at that, and Ethan turns his gaze to Miles, who bustles around the desk and pointedly ignores him, setting a travel mug beside his laptop.

“So,” Miles says, falling into his chair, “Nestor, this is Jay Clemmons. Clemmons, this is Ethan Nestor.”

Jay nods, and he takes the seat next to Ethan, gaze sliding over to him.

Ethan resists the urge to roll his eyes. He folds his hands in his lap and nods to the kid. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Jay says, and he looks like he wants to reach out, maybe to shake his hand or something, but he doesn’t.

“Let’s make this relatively quick,” Miles says brusquely. He grabs the file from his desk and shuffles through it, placing a photo in front of Ethan and the new kid. Ethan’s gaze falls onto the blurred, grayscale picture as Miles speaks.

“Caucasian male, 21 years old. Name’s Joseph Stuller, but his employers know him by JoeyStu99.”

“Employers?” Jay presses. Ethan’s eye twitches, but he doesn’t look at him.

“He’s a hacker,” Miles says, scanning over the file. “Says here that he’s been causing a fair bit of grief for some mom ‘n pop shops a couple towns over. Been hacking CCTV footage, allowing for others to hit the place while the cameras are down and steal anything valuable while the store’s closed. Over the course of the past two months, there have been four reported incidences. The most recent, an antique jewelry shop.”

Miles pauses, ever the drama queen. “He and whoever he’s working for are getting more confident, going for stores with higher profits. Local police are starting to connect the dots.”

Ethan chews his lip, thinking. He rakes his gaze over the picture again, takes in what little information he can from it. Light-colored hair, a large unbranded hoodie swamping his upper body, black Adidas joggers, a cheap-looking phone held up to his ear, and his mask hiding any distinct facial features.

Not enough. “Any other identifying details?”

Miles hums, nodding to the picture on the desk. “The phone he’s got? It’s a burner. The rest of the report is rough, this guy is sneaky, but we put him at about 5’10,” 130lbs. Real skinny. He’s got brown eyes, blond hair, and a septum piercing, but no tattoos that we documented.”

Ethan sits back in his chair, running over the details. It’s do-able, certainly. In fact, it seems to be one of the easier cases he’s been given over the past year. He looks up, intending to ask about scheduling, but then he sees Miles’s face, and he stops. He’s got that look in his eyes. The one that Ethan _hates_.

“I want you to show him the ropes,” Miles says, his firm voice brooking no room for argument. “It’s a relatively simple case, and I don’t want him starting on anything too complicated.”

“You...are you talking about me? Cuz I went through four years of training; I-I know what I’m doing,” Jay says, sounding equal parts confused and offended.

Miles gives him a weary look, then exhales in a long, drawn-out sigh. “Yes, Clemmons, I’m talking about you. And while you might’ve been in training for four years, you have no real-world experience. Nestor is one of the best we have here; I’d say you’re lucky to be guided by someone who is successful and efficient as he is.”

Jay shuts his mouth.

Ethan rubs his eyes, wonders how much he’ll have to stream to cover the fact that he’s got almost no videos filmed and backlogged. Fuck.

“How soon?” Ethan sighs, opening bleary eyes to look at Miles.

“Within the week. It’s in a nicer part of town, so you’ll want to scope the place out beforehand. The guy works from home, but we’ve nailed down his grocery shopping routine pretty firm. He should be out of his apartment between noon and two o’clock PM this Wednesday. He goes once a week.”

Ethan nods, thinks for a moment. Then, he turns to the newbie. “Okay, meet me here at eleven-ish on Wednesday, alright?”

He turns to Miles, but he answers his question before he can even ask.

“Yes, we can get you a car to take, that won’t be an issue,” Miles states. He taps his knuckles on the desk, once, brisk. “Clemmons, you’re free to go. Nestor, I want to talk to you for a second.”

Jay’s eyes dart between the two of them, but he stands without a word and scurries out of the office.

“Miles-”

“Nope, I don’t want to hear it.”

“You didn’t tell me he was a _fan_ ,” Ethan hisses.

Miles leans back in his chair, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes. When he speaks, he sounds defensive and a little worn out. “I didn’t know, okay? It- I don’t think it should be an issue. But if it is- if it is, tell me and I’ll...fuck, I’ll figure it out, alright?”

And suddenly, Ethan feels bad for making a big deal out of it.

“No, no, it’s- it’ll be fine. I was just surprised. I wasn’t expecting... I’m sorry.”

Miles scoffs. “You’re the one who chose to be all famous and shit.”

“Shut up,” Ethan laughs, leaning over the desk to shove Miles’s shoulder. Even with his mask on, Ethan can see his cheeky little grin.

Miles holds his hands up in mock defense, pushing back in his chair and kicking his feet up on the desk with an air of nonchalance. He just barely avoids knocking his drink off with his sneakers.

Ethan could probably head home. He _should_ probably head home, to film a few videos and prep for the job.

“So, how’s Ellie?”

“What, now you wanna sit around and chat?” Miles snorts, waves a hand in the direction of the door. “Get outta here, kid.”

Ethan blows him a kiss on his way out. He shuts the door behind him, but before he can even turn, he bumps into someone hovering right outside. Ethan jerks around, blinking in surprise.

Jay huffs out an embarrassed little laugh and shuffles backwards a bit, giving Ethan a few inches of space. He’s still far too close.

“Hey!” he says, eyes wide and voice a tad breathless. “I was wondering if, I mean, if I could talk to you?”

Ethan only hesitates for a moment. He gestures in the vague direction of the Cafeteria. “Yeah, sure, but let’s grab some lunch first, okay?”

Jay quickly agrees, and, as they walk, Jay stuffs his hands in his pockets and seems to fidget. It reminds Ethan of himself, a bit, and he thinks maybe this kid won’t be as annoying as he first thought.

Ethan grabs a foil-wrapped deli sub and a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, and Jay glances at him before grabbing the exact same thing. Ethan leads the way over to his usual table on the outskirts of the Cafeteria.

Jay sits across from him.

Ethan unwraps the corner of his sub, pulls down his mask, and takes a bite, nodding to Jay.

Jay takes off his mask and sets it on the table. Instead of digging into his food, he grins, leans back, and says: “So you- you’re friends with Mark, then. Right?”

Ethan swallows his mouthful of sandwich without really tasting it. He uncaps his water bottle and takes a sip, if just to prolong the amount of time before he has to answer.

“Yeah,” he finally says, twisting the lid back onto his water. “Mark and I are pretty good friends. Why do you ask?”

Jay blinks, as if the question somehow takes him by surprise. He recovers quickly, though, eyes bright and legs bouncing so vigorously under the table that his whole body jolts with the motion. Ethan thinks, for a moment, that if the kid doesn’t somehow release his energy, he’s going to spontaneously combust. He hopes it’s mostly just nerves—if this is how energetic Jay normally is, he’s going to have one hell of a time adapting to what the job requires of him.

Ethan himself had to learn that the hard way. But, with time, practice, and proper ADHD medication, he’s calmed down considerably compared to when he first moved out to LA. Looking back at some of his old content, he can barely even recognize _himself_ sometimes.

“...I mean, no offense or anything, but I didn’t even know you existed until Mark started Unus Annus,” Jay says, shrugging one shoulder.

And, okay, Ethan should have expected that. _Most_ of his subscribers and fans know him through Mark.

But that doesn’t mean he _likes_ it.

Ethan makes a sound of acknowledgement, taking a large bite from his sub so he doesn’t have to talk.

This seems to encourage Jay.

“It’s just, well, do you think maybe I could meet him? My girlfriend and I are huge fans, and it would be awesome to, like, talk to him and stuff,” Jay rambles. Then, his eyes widen a fraction, legs going still beneath the table. “Wait does- does he know? That you do this, I mean. Because you guys worked together pretty close for Unus Annus and-”

He emits a small gasp, eyes widening even further. He leans in a bit, looks both ways as if he’s about to conspire, and he whispers, “Is- does he do this too? This job? Is he-”

“No,” Ethan says quickly, a sharp bite to the end of the word. He fiddles with the paper wrapped around the sub, tears it to tiny pieces between his fingers and shakes his head. He fights not to clench his jaw. “No. He’s not. He doesn’t know.”

He fixes Jay with a firm, pointed look. “And it’s going to stay that way.”

Jay blinks at him. He frowns a little, a deep wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. His voice is edged with annoyance as he says, “Jeez, chill out, dude, it’s not like I’m gonna say anything.”

The frown lifts and he gives Ethan this hopeful little smile. “So you think my girlfriend and I could meet him? Maybe, like, we could set something up?”

Ethan sighs. “Listen, man, I know how it is to want to meet somebody you look up to. Trust me, I do. But with COVID and everything else, I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

 _And Mark would never agree to it_ , he doesn’t add. _He likes to avoid the publicity when he can help it._

The smile on Jay’s lips falters, then drops altogether. His eyes slide away from Ethan’s, focusing on a small stain on the table.

“Oh,” he says, and the disappointment rings through the air around them. “Okay.”

Ethan almost feels bad.

“Sorry for, uh,” Jay waves a hand, “asking, I guess.”

“It’s okay,” Ethan says, not unkindly. He stands up from his chair and slips his mask back up over his mouth and nose. He gathers up his half-empty water bottle and barely touched sub.

“I’ll, um, I’ll see you on Wednesday. I hope you have a good rest of your day,” Ethan says lightly, and he turns to throw his trash away, more than ready to get home and take a nap.

He’s tired, but it’s more than a surface-level thing. It’s a bone-deep, weary sort of exhaustion. He’s been working his ass off recently, between streaming and recording and going over to Mark’s and trying to get himself back into shape.

Tucking his hands into his hoodie pocket, he walks down the empty corridor towards the parking lot, debating the merits of taking a long-overdue break from YouTube.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on-  
> Twitter: @cass_boi  
> Tumblr: aude-sapere


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